


Control Yourself

by somekindofgnome



Series: Kinktober 2020 [4]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Aftercare, Choking, Discipline, Dom Bucky Barnes, Dom/sub, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Shameless Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26814631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somekindofgnome/pseuds/somekindofgnome
Summary: After a high-stress mission, you and Bucky are snowed into your safehouse. While you're incapable of controlling the weather, Bucky teaches you that there are some things you can control.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Series: Kinktober 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946362
Kudos: 85





	Control Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Today we're switching things up and diving into the Marvel universe! And I'm exposing my multifandom ass. Hello, I'm an even bigger nerd than you ever thought possible. 
> 
> Today's prompt was "Choking/Spanking." So I decided that both is probably good. I hope this fic will leave you *gasping*... geddit?
> 
> I'll see myself out.

“It’s not letting up any time soon.”

You pull the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders to ward off the chill that wafts from the frosted glass in front of you. It’s dark out there, but in the faint glow of the porch light you can see that the blizzard is unrelenting.

It’s easy to see that you will _not_ be getting Stateside tonight.

_“Dammit!”_

You twist from the window and the blanket whirls behind you like a cape. You can feel cold anxiety twisting its fingers around your heart, curling its way up your windpipe. You can’t help it. You _hate_ it when things go wrong.

“You’re doing it again.”

Bucky’s voice pipes up from the loveseat across the room. The cabin that you’re stationed in for the night is barely twelve feet by twelve feet- just enough room for a double bed, tiny kitchen, a loveseat and a rug parked in front of a big wood stove.

“Am _not.”_

He lifts his eyes from the book he’d been paging through before- some crumbling classic piece that neither of you had heard of- and though his gaze is soft, his jaw is set.

“Are too.”

“It doesn’t count when the situation _calls_ for it.” Your voice breaks into the upper register as you cross a few steps back towards him, coming to stand on the edge of the rug with the blanket wrapped tightly around your shoulders.

“The situation is out of your control,” he retorts. “There’s nothing you can do about the snow.”

He licks his lips and his gaze flicks over your body. There’s not much to look at, when you’re wrapped up to the chin in such a massive throw, but you can tell he’s not just checking you out. He can read you like a book, and that’s _exactly_ what he’s doing right now.

“Sit,” he prompts, softer than before. “Might as well settle in.”

But you’re not ready to give in just yet.

“I’m allowed to feel this way.”

“I never said you weren’t.” He shifts a little in his seat, bringing his eyes back to the book and flipping forward a few pages. He always does that when he’s bored with a story; he flips forward to see if he’s got anything to look forward to.

“But you’re _acting_ like it.”

“Sweetheart, you and I _both_ know that I am _not_ out to stop that. I just don’t want you to spend the whole night letting something you _can’t_ change keep you from relaxing a little.”

You needed the rest, too. Part of the reason you were so wound up was the mission you’d come back from. Bullets flew over the fate of a heavily armoured briefcase and your getaway car was a _snowmobile_ \- just the sort of thing to fray your nerves. In the field you were iron solid. But once you were safe… it could be difficult to process sometimes.

“So you’re trying to change the way I feel. You’re trying to tell me _not_ to be anxious anymore. You of all people should know that it’s not as simple as that.”

His eyes drag from the book again, and this time he’s agitated. Your chest thrills. One step closer to getting what you hadn’t realize you wanted, until he gave you a taste of it with his gaze.

Unfortunately, he picks up on that. He quirks a brow and narrows his eyes, looking you over again.

“I understand,” he growls with a feral edge to his voice that you’re suddenly not sure you wanted to provoke.

“It’s not that,” you snap and your cheeks heat in defense. But it’s too late. He’s already smirking, snapping the book shut and rising from the loveseat with embers smouldering in his silvery gaze.

He comes to stand in front of you, _towering_ over you like the mountain of a man he is. He’s always leaned into a haphazard sort of lumberjack aesthetic, and that effect is amplified tenfold against the backdrop of a snowy cabin and a blazing fire. Burning wood that _he_ chopped earlier that afternoon.

Okay, so maybe you have a thing for lumberjacks.

He growls your name with such a deep edge of baritone that it draws your attention right back to him. He’s got his stern face on. The one he always makes when you’re behaving this way. You know he’s only doing this because he knows it’s what you need- and you _do_ need it, _badly,_ even if you’re not ready to ask for it.

“Drop the blanket.” He growls like a drill sergeant and your body keens. You sink your teeth into your lower lip, hesitate for half a heartbeat, then release your grip on the corners of the broad knit. It slips over your shoulders and pools in a half-moon at your feet. As it draws away from your skin, it reveals the underwear you’ve got on underneath. The rest of your clothes are draped neatly by the fire, drying out from the spill you took in the wet snow.

Black bra. Black thong. Practical, for missions. But it doesn’t exactly keep you well-covered.

Bucky’s seen you in less.

“That’s better,” he rumbles. He reaches forward and takes you by the hips, stroking his thumbs over the skin just above your waistband. He reaches up and cups your cheek, tilting your face toward him. It’s warm, by the hearth, but you’re still shivering.

You’re already starting to break down.

“I’ve got you,” he coos. He leans down and kisses your forehead, the strands of his unbound hair brushing your cheek. In the next instant, he’s scooped you into his arms and he lays you face down on the bed, running one hand in and out of the curve of your spine. You tuck your knees underneath your body and push your hips up.

You know how this works. You’re ready to give in.

“I’m gonna give you five,” he grunts, already running his fingers over your ass. He slips his fingertips playfully under the edges of your underwear, snapping the elastic against your skin and making you jump. You can’t feel him behind you, but you know he’s getting excited already.

He hooks two fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulls them down over your ass. He never takes them all the way off; he only pulls them down enough to expose you, for extra humiliation.

And if that’s not enough, he draws his palm over your bare ass, and you can hear him rumbling his appreciation. He’s never actually told you this before but based on the grabbing and the slapping and the pinching- sometimes in _public-_ your ass is one of his favourite parts of your body.

He draws his hand back and pauses, just to torture you that much longer.

“Count for me, sweetness.”

His palm- flesh, not metal, thank _God-_ connects with your backside, sending a thrill of pain through your whole body. The sting sets in like an afterthought and you whimper, tucking your hands under the pillow that you’ve buried your face into.

“One.” The word is muffled, but it’s enough for him, and he soothes your ass with another delicate stroke of his palm before he’s pulling it back again.

_Smack._

“T- _two.”_

This time, his palm connects with the tender spot where your backside meets the back of your thigh, and your hips jolt forward in surprise. Your spine goes concave and you push your chest into the mattress, squeezing your eyes shut.

He was right about this. You’re in agony, but at least you’re not thinking about the snow.

“You with me, sweetness?” He runs his hand up your spine, fingers curling gently around the back of your neck and making you groan.

“’M good,” you promise. You lift your chin and you can _hear_ him smirking over your shoulder.

“That’s my girl.”

His metal hand slips under your left arm, fingers dancing up your sternum before they close around your throat. You choke on a breath but quickly realize that he’s not squeezing. Not yet, anyway.

“Almost there,” he promises. His flesh hand slides down your back again and lifts away from your skin. “Count of three, sweetness. One…”

He smacks you on _two_ and you were fucking ready for it this time. But that doesn’t stop your body from jerking forward into his metal palm, sucking in a panicked breath and _loving_ the way the air seems to rush past his fingers. They tighten, restricting your breath just a little and you let your eyes fall shut.

“Three,” you gasp, not even hiding it anymore. You’re blissed out. You don’t care. He _knew_ he could do this to you.

“Almost there,” he repeats, holding you fast. His metal fingers tighten just a little more and your pulse is _racing_ beneath his smooth thumb.

The next one comes hard, _relentlessly_ so, and you cry out hoarsely, letting tears blur your vision. You want to be tough for him but it hurts too much and you’re feeling delicate and he _always_ knows how to unlock it when you need a cry. Your feelings get bound up inside you so tightly sometimes- he’s the only one who can unravel them.

“One more,” he murmurs, and he’s stroking your back with his flesh hand in broad circles, loosening his grip on your throat as you choke and gasp for breath. “You can do it, sweetness. My strong girl. You can handle one more.”

“D-do it,” you plead, because he’ll worry if you don’t say something. He stays where he is for a minute, whispering softly to you. Then he shifts and lifts his hand. And you wait.

_Smack._

“Five,” you sob, and then you’re collapsing onto the mattress and he’s collapsing beside you, pulling your body into his chest and wrapping all his limbs around you. He holds you tight and strokes your hair as you cry, letting the stress of the mission, the weather, and everything else wash over you.

He doesn’t say anything to you, just holds you, shushing you quietly when the sobs wrack your body too tightly to let anything else in.

Once your cries have quieted into soft little hiccups, he kisses your forehead and pulls away just enough to see your tear-soaked face.

“Better?” He asks, so tenderly it’s hard to imagine he had you by the throat just a few minutes ago. But that’s the nature of your relationship. He knows how to take you apart, but he’s the only one who can put you back together.

You cast your gaze over his face. He looks considerably more relaxed than before, too, and you let a sleepy smile stretch your features. You snuggle in close, as he draws the blankets over you. He casts another glance at the fire- whatever he sees, he decides it can wait, because he rolls onto his side and pulls you back against his chest, draping a heavy arm over your torso.

“Better,” you sigh, letting your eyes fall shut. You sleep through the night.

When you wake up in the morning, the storm has passed. The sun beams through the dusty cabin, splashing brilliant gold across the bedspread.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the end of day four! These Marvel fics will be speckled in every so often, so I thank you in advance for your appreciation and/or patience. If you've been enjoying my MHA work so far, that's awesome! If you're more of a Marvel person, this one's for you!
> 
> Leave me a kudos and a comment if you feel so inclined. Happy Kinktober!


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